The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [13]
Beatrice leaned in across the table and grabbed Berit’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. Then came a single tear that traced its way down her cheek.
“Can we call anyone?”
Berit turned her face toward Beatrice, meeting her gaze.
“How?” she asked hoarsely, in a whisper.
“He was murdered,” Beatrice said in a low voice, as if she were adjusting the volume to match Berit’s.
The look she got reminded her of a sheep slaughter she had witnessed as a child. The victim was a female sheep. The animal was taken from the pen, braying, and led out into the yard. She was wild but let herself be calmed by Beatrice’s uncle.
It was the look the sheep gave Beatrice at that moment, that tenth of a second before it happened. The white of the eye glimmered, the expression full of hurt, no suggestion of fear, more as if posing a question. It was as if there weren’t room enough in the world for her despair, although the pen was so spacious, the pastures so rich.
“Murdered,” Berit mumbled.
“Can we call anyone? Do you have any siblings?”
Berit shook her head.
“Parents?”
Another shake.
“Justus,” she said. “I have to get a hold of Justus.”
“Where is he?”
“At Danne’s.”
“Close by?”
“Salabacksgatan.”
I can’t do this, Beatrice thought, but she knew at the same time that as far as she was concerned, the worst was over. The words had been said. She would do everything she could to assuage the woman’s pain and give her the answers she was looking for. A feeling of reverence gripped her. It was a feeling familiar to her from before. Beatrice was far from religious, but she could sense what people sought in the religious messages and rituals. There was so much in her police work that intersected with the big questions, myths, and dreams.
She had noticed that the police often had to play the role of confessional priests, people to whom one could unburden oneself. Even the uniformed police officer, who technically represented authority, power, and the bad conscience of the citizen, could receive these confidences. That had been her experience on the beat. Or was it her personality that had invited these many instances of quiet, breathtaking intimacy? She didn’t know, but she cherished these moments. She had told herself she would never become cynical.
The front door was suddenly thrown open.
“Justus,” Berit gasped.
But it was a man who rushed into the kitchen. He caught sight of Beatrice and halted abruptly.
“Are you a minister or something?”
“No,” Beatrice said and stood up.
The man was panting, his gaze aggressive.
“Who the hell are you, then?”
“A police officer.”
“They’ve killed my brother.”
He waved his right arm in front of Beatrice.
“Lennart,” Berit whispered.
He stopped short in his fierce attack, looking at her as if he had only at that moment registered her presence. He lowered his arms and his whole body deflated like a balloon pierced with a needle.
“Berit,” he said and took a step toward her.
“Bastard,” she said and spat in his face.
He took her outburst with calm, wiping his face with his sleeve. Beatrice glimpsed a tear under the arm of his jacket where the bloodred lining peeked out.
“Was that really necessary?” he asked, and Beatrice could read only confusion and grief in his face.
“It was your fault,” Berit said with teeth so tightly clenched that it was hard to understand how she could utter any sounds, let alone speak. Her voice shot up into a falsetto register. “It’s your fucking fault my John is dead! You always dragged him into your shit. Always you!”
Lennart shook his head. His face was lined and black stubble covered a surprising amount of it. Beatrice would never have been able to guess that the man in front of her had been Little John’s brother.
“I don’t know anything about this,” he said. “I promise.